Moving On
by jaderaid
Summary: Season 5. Now that he's stopped drinking, Telemachus Rhade writes in a journal his thoughts about the past, and tells more about his wife and children. SPOILER for episode 509, 'What Will Be Was Not'.


Author's Note: I wrote this the night after seeing episode #509, 'What Will Be Was Not'. I couldn't stop smiling after Rhade announced he stopped drinking, so I wrote this. I may/may not continue this because I'm currently working on **'Echoes of the Past' (EotP)**, my other fanfic, so I could continue this at a later date. **This picks up where the episode left off, and is from Telemachus Rhade's point of view.**

I put a lot of me into this, so please, no flames. I know that some of it may not seem like something Rhade would say, those are the things I put in that are purely me. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all. **Oh, and the reference about Rhade's sister is just from my fanfic EotP. That wasn't in the actual episode, I just thought it fit in rather well at that point. I believe its in Chapter 15 of EotP if you're curious.**

"Moving On" 

By Meg Jordan

_--------------_

_No, ya don't know what it's like_

_when nothin' feels alright_

_ya don't know what it's like_

_to be like me_

_-_'_Welcome to My Life',_ Simple Plan

_---------------_

"I quit," I told Dylan, handing him the flask that had been my constant companion for the past nine- ten now?- months. I walked out of Command, hearing Dylan say: "Did he just say he quit?"

"Hey, buddy!" Harper came jogging after me. He probably had wanted to convince me to keep drinking since I am -was- his best source of income.

"Shut it, Harper," I growled, not turning around.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry for callin' you an Uber," Harper said in that tone of voice I both love and hate. "I must be crazy, but here's your money." He tossed the brown purse at me.

I caught it, turning around. "Thanks Harper." I lift the bag in salute before continuing to walk away.

Now here I sit at a dark corner table in the saloon, dictating my thoughts in an old-fashioned, leather bound paper journal. I can't even record this on a flexi- that kind of technology is illegal here, and I don't need to get into a fight over a flexi.

They're talking about me, them at the bar. Harper and Trance are standing behind it, Beka is nursing her drink, and Dylan and Doyle are there as well.

Harper is asking how long they think until I start drinking again. It's amazing how humans think if you're not looking straight at them, you can't hear them. Doyle says not long; Dylan says give me a chance. I don't think they know I can hear them.

My memory is improving. I'm still not sure whether that is a good thing or not. I can remember the last look on Louisa's face with startling clarity, such clarity that tears spring to my eyes, and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat. I've missed her so much these past nine months. But coming side-by-side with the bad memories are the good, things I had forgotten for so long. I can remember the day I was promoted to admiral back on Terazed. A memory that brings a smile to my lips is when Dylan was infected by that disease, and had declared that no one could move him from Command. Rommie had simply reached out a finger and tapped him on the chest, causing him to fall backward between Beka and me. I thought she would catch him, but she thought I had him. That was back when we were all together on Andromeda.

Andromeda. She's running on seventy-percent power now, thanks to the quartz crystal Dylan found in the tunnels. Hopefully it will be soon that she's running on full power again.

Silence at the bar. I think they're looking at me, but I won't glance up to be sure. Doyle is asking what I'm doing. From the corner of my eye I can see Trance refilling someone's drink, saying that I am writing things down.

Now Harper is making a smart remark, something about not knowing I knew how to write. He really is rather annoying.

Beka is asking Dylan if he knew that I used to have a wife and children back on Terazed. Stupid, why did I tell them about my family? I don't need sympathy, I tell myself. But even as I write this I find myself wishing someone would come to me, tell me everything will be all right. I'm missing my wife and children more than ever, now. The happy memories back on Terazed are all that fill my mind, and pain that has been repressed for so long threatens to rise up and overwhelm me. I'm suddenly wishing I hadn't given Dylan my flask. No, those are bad thoughts, Rhade. You have to move on. I write these encouraging words down, realizing that if someone ever puzzles their way through my hopelessly bad handwriting and reads this, they will think I'm talking to myself.

I don't care. I'm not writing this for the benefit of others, I am writing this for myself. The violet ink is smudging on my hand, almost making me wish I were left-handed. Almost.

Dylan responds to Beka, telling her he never knew I used to have a family and that I had never brought it up with him. Trance says it's because no one had ever cared to ask, that they had always assumed that because I was 'hitting on' Beka that I couldn't ever have had a family.

Humans. How pathetic, how they say Nietzscheans have no morals because they're polygamists. Humans say that because most Nietzschean males have many wives that they don't love. Then why is it that humans divorce, or see people in secret besides the one they are publicly with? I don't understand it. No one should have given me this pen; I find myself rambling on about things that don't even pertain to what I was previously writing.

They are silent again at the bar. I think Trance's comment about no one caring hit them hard. I can hear the sheepish smile in her voice as she tells them she doesn't know how she knows that. It's true, I suppose; no one had ever cared to ask about me.

Captain-High-and-Mighty over there seems shell-shocked that it is implied he didn't care about someone. It is amazing how much respect I used to have for Dylan, and how little I have for him now.

Doyle is saying something now, but I just tune it out and focus on trying to find a way to keep the purple ink from rubbing onto my fingers. I find I don't care what they think about me anymore. I find myself comparing the old me and the now me, and how much I've changed. I even find myself wondering if that person nine months ago was me. Am I going crazy? Probably, but I hope writing all this down will keep me in my right mind, what ever that is.

There is a fear I have, though. Even if we _do_ find a way to escape the Seefra system and head back to the Known Worlds, what would it be like when we do? After the time warp when we were landed here at different times, I wonder if the important thing is not _where_ we end up, but _when_ will we be? Will it be the same day and year as when we left, or rather, were teleported? What if we find ourselves years into the past, or worse, into the future?

Another thought comes to mind, and a chill runs through me. What of the Worldship? Is it still out there, all those trillions of Magog? I have a feeling deep in my gut that Trance didn't fully destroy it, that it's still out there, waiting.

And the Abyss? I don't even know if it's here on Seefra One. But it's controlling the Worldship, and I know if I were the Abyss, I would send it straight to Terazed, to destroy the capital of the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth, split in two by Pish Tryan, Tyr Anasazi, and, albeit indirectly, me. Without a unified front, how could they ever triumph over the Magog?

So many questions, and no answers in sight. Beka is walking toward me now, and I'm torn between needing to talk and wanting silence. She sits across from me. "What are you writing?" she asks.

"My thoughts," I tell her. "Do you mind if I write down everything we say?"

"Whatever floats your boat, Rhade," Beka tells me. "Why?"

"It will keep me from going insane because no one ever talks to me anymore." Why did I say that? That makes no sense whatsoever.

"Well, that was back when you were a drunk bastard," she says. "Is there anything you want to talk about?" She looks at me with a trace of something -sympathy?- in her eyes.

"No," I say. "But I get the feeling you want to ask me something."

Beka hesitates, giving me time to write everything down. "Why did you never mention them? Your wife, your children. None of us even knew you had a family until you told Harper and I."

I shrug as soon as I finish writing. "You never asked. And besides, they're dead." My coldness surprises even me, and I blink rapidly to hide the tears.

"How long ago was it?" she asked. "Was it before you joined _Andromeda_, or after?"

"Before," I tell her. The talking seems to make the pain go away, a little. "Ten years ago they were killed in a pirate raid, back on Terazed. My wife, my three children, and my sister, all killed by pirates. That's why I opposed Terazed joining the Commonwealth when Dylan first came to Terazed." I keep talking. It seems to help, and Beka doesn't seem to mind. "Then, just when I thought I could start over, form a new family with Louisa-"

"She dies as well," Beka supplied, and now I can clearly see the pity in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Rhade-"

I shrug and rub my hand over my eyes. "Don't be," I say. "It won't change anything." There is wetness on my hand from when I rubbed my eyes, but at least the tears aren't visible. I drink from the glass of water at my side, wondering when the last time was I had a drink with no alcohol.

"Are you really gonna stop? Drinking, I mean." Beka seems to sense that I don't want to talk about them anymore, for which I'm grateful.

I look at her across the table. "I realize now that drinking only took my mind off the past temporarily, and I would have to face it sooner or later," I say by way of answer, and pray she doesn't ask me to elaborate.

Beka seems satisfied by that, however. She gets up to head back to the bar with the others.

The truth is, I was waiting, hoping someone would come along and save me like they always did. Beka, Dylan, Rommie, Harper, Trance, any of them, all of them. Now I finally understand that I have to stand on my own feet, and that no one can save me from myself but me.

Listen to me. I sound like some hopeless romantic; maybe I am. For now I am going to put this to the side and join another one of the frequent fights in the saloon. As soon as I finish writing this, I am going to slip the journal into my pocket and join the brawl.

Until next time, then.

-Telemachus Rhade, out of Majoram, by Rhade-

**Like I said before, I might continue this later. That depends on your reviews. So get on it, review!**

**Meg Jordan**


End file.
